With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

Foul whisp'rings are abroad.

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.

Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?

Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.